The Benefits of Being Compromised
by The PinK BandiT
Summary: Because Nat wasn't talking about the the red in her ledger. And who doesn't want to know what really happened in Budapest? Natasha/Clint because they are perfection and need their own movie. NOW.


**Because seeing the movie twice isn't enough, and I write so well when it's midnight and I still have eight page of research paper waiting for me. When will I ever learn!**

Nat woke up drenched in sweat again, her feet twisted in her blankets the way they used to when she was little and had frequent nightmares. She'd thought those days far behind her, but with her high stress job and the occasional bouts of PTSD that followed, it wasn't unusual to have the rare sleepless night. But this time was different.

It had been three days since the invasion, three days since Loki almost took over the planet and infected her friends and… partner. Of the team Nat had suffered the least; sure she was attacked by the Hulk and that scared the crap out of her at the time (as Clint liked to say, sometimes even the best of us have use of the fetal position), but it wasn't a big scary green monster that plagued her dreams every night for the past three. It was Clint, blue eyed and brainwashed, happily inflicting every torture she had ever used before her SHIELD days back onto her, then literally flaying her alive. So much for rest and relaxation.

Three days before, just after Shwarma the team had gone back to the base to debrief, fill out paper work, and the whole nine yards. They were all exhausted, and understandably, but Nat hadn't been able to sleep without checking on her partner first. She found him sitting in the shower fully clothed with a piece of paper in his hand.

"Nat," he stated, like it wasn't a name or person, but a fact. He had many nicknames for her, Nat being the most common. It was what he called her when it was just the two of them, distant enough to remain professional, but still showed trust and the underlying friendship between them. Romanov was when he was angry, or occasionally Natasha. Black Widow was missions only, and Tasha only on the rarest of occasions when both of them had their guards down long enough that they could pretend to be normal. Tasha was her favorite. But today he said Nat. And so she was. And that's all there was to it.

He didn't make an effort to stand, but held out the paper for her to read. It was wet, and the ink smudged, but still readable none the less. It was a list of the deceased; his to be exact. And it wasn't a short one.

"Clint I told you not to do this to yourself," she said, a pinch of emotion creeping into her normally stern and apathetic lecture voice. Clint just shrugged and gestured to the other end of his tub. He was soaking wet, yet somehow he looked comfortable, as though it were completely normal for a man in tight black clothing to sit in a shower for hours without moving. After a moment of just staring at him, Clint broke the silence.

"I don't plan on getting out anytime soon. Would you care to join me?" he asked. His facial expression was almost relaxed, but it was his eyes that gave it away. His soft blue greys were tired in that hopelessly pensive sort of way. She sighed. It wasn't like she could say no to him now. Not after everything he'd been through the last few days.

Natasha let loose a single laugh at the preposterous notion of climbing into a bathtub with him, but shook her head and climbed in anyway. She leaned against her side of the tub, his one outstretched foot tickling her now wet back, the other bent at the knee and resting against her thigh. Instead of copying his stance however, she put both of her feet in his lap and smiled.

"My feet are cold," she lied in explanation, wiggling them against his rock hard abs. It was too bad he wasn't ticklish.

"Well this just keeps getting more and more like Budapest, doesn't it?" he said, closing his eyes and letting the stream of water run down his face.

"How so?" she asked, genuinely curious. She had referenced it earlier because it had been the first time they were as horribly outnumbered as they were during the invasion, only it had been just the two of them and both had run out of ammo. And she'd gotten shot and passed out from blood loss, but she'd still managed to knock out a good dozen with her bare hands before the black had completely taken over.

"Last time I checked I didn't get shot today Barton," she teased, lightly pushing her foot against his chest. Barton just smiled sadly and shook his head.

"Like I said Nat, you and I remember Budapest very differently."

She shot him a deadpan, and then raised her eyebrows in a question.

"You really don't remember what happened after you got shot, do you?" he said, his voice almost wistful.

Nat almost snorted. "Clint I lost multiple pints of blood. I don't remember anything past knocking out that last thug. I think I fainted?" she supplied. His face told her otherwise.

He opened his mouth to reply, but decided against it and retreated just a bit further into himself.

"Don't worry about it Nat," he reassured, closing his eyes once more and leaning into the water. That was the beauty of their relationship. They didn't always have to talk to understand each other. Sometimes it was enough to just be there.

But now it was three days later in Bermuda at two in the morning. Tony had thought it would be hilarious if he bought the team a beach house, but since Thor was gone, Bruce was bored, Tony missed the attention and Steve was on some weird soul searching motorcycle trip, it ended up being just her and Clint.

Whose footsteps she was currently hearing outside her door. She didn't bother trying to straighten her sheets or wipe the sweat off of her brow. He'd heard her nightmares the night before as well.

"Two days in a row isn't like you Nat," he said, plopping down next to her on the bed.

"Three actually." She looked at him to gauge his expression, but instead of surprise she found him studying her. That's when she realized how close they were sitting. Not that it affected her in any way (she's the _Black Widow_ for crying out loud), but still it registered and stuck in the back of her mind.

"What did you really mean when you said that you had been compromised?" he asked, locking her in eye contact so she wouldn't lie.

"What did you really mean when you said you remembered Budapest differently?" she countered without a blink. Clint softened his gaze in response, his stormy blue irises melting through her defenses. Then he murmured, almost inaudibly.

"Come on Tasha." The way he said her name struck a chord in her gut that both hurt and pulled and stretched in every direction. "Just talk to me."

That's when she knew she was done. Damn. Who knew the legendary Black Widow's weakness was as simple as her name on his lips?

"That's it," she admitted. Barton face shifted to confusion. She launched her explanation.

"You have different nicknames for me you know. Romanov or Natasha for when you're angry, Black Widow on the job and Nat for when it's just us being… us."

"Okay… but what does that have to do with-" he started, but stopped when she held up a hand telling him to be patient. Nat started again.

"Every once in a while, when we're about to die or we have nothing left to lose and we let our guards down just long enough to be human, you call me Tasha. When we were fighting on the base, just before I knocked you out you called me Tasha. And it worked," she finished.

Clint turned to the ground, trying to process what Nat was saying. Of all the things in which Natasha Romanov excelled, explaining her feelings was not one of them.

"Well, almost. I still knocked you out, but it worked enough that I hesitated for a split second. And I _never_ hesitate Cliff," she added seriously, studying the side of his face for a reaction.

"Never." She nodded.

"So you've been compromised?" he breathed, as though he was afraid that saying it too loud would chase the revelation away. Nat simply nodded, afraid to break the silence. Neither of them moved or spoke, but the tension in her shoulders just seemed to melt automatically when he was around.

"I've been in love with you since Budapest," he blurted out suddenly, eyes still glued to the floor. Nat's heart literally skipped a beat. She froze.

"What?"

"I thought I lost you. The last thing you told me before you passed out was that your feet and hands were cold. We were in Budapest in July; it was like a hundred and twenty degrees out and I panicked. I personally carried you from battlefield to the operating room and didn't leave till you woke up." Clint ran a hand through his hair and fidgeted, still unwilling to look Nat in the face.

"They thought I was getting too attached. Hence the increase in solo missions and relocations to New Mexico and… everything." Clint admitted. Finally, he turned and looked up at her. Their eyes met, but this time all cards were out on the table.

"You're not the only one who's been compromised Tasha," he whispered, reaching up and rubbing his thumb across her bottom lip. Nat leaned into him, closing the distance between their mouths. They had kissed before on the job, but never like this; never for real. One of his hands held her cheek, the other pushing the last of the hair stuck to her forehead out of the way.

Before either of them could reason beyond animal instinct, Nat was straddling him as he kissed her neck, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his loose night shirt and pulling it over his head. His hands were all over her; tracing scar lines up and down her back, softly brushing back her hair, pulling her further into his warm embrace.

Needless to say, when the pair had finally finished 'not sleeping,' they tangled together on her mattress, wrapped up in the comfort of having another warm body to keep the night mares at bay.

Maybe being compromised wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
